AT the sight of visitors he stopped in the doorway, took them in
at a glance, threw off his cap, dropped the books on to the
floor, walked over to the bed, and sat down on the very edge. An
expression of annoyance and displeasure passed over his pale
handsome face, which seemed even paler than it really was, in
contrast to his dark-red, wavy hair.

"Oh, nothing in particular, only that it is impossible to show
one's nose in this hateful town without knocking against some
vulgarity, stupidity, tittle-tattle, or some horrible injustice.
One can't live here any longer!"

"Is that why your advertisement in the papers says that you want
a place and have no objection to leaving St. Petersburg? "
Ostrodumov asked.

"Yes. I would go away from here with the greatest of pleasure, if
some fool could be found who would offer me a place!"

Nejdanov bounced up from the bed like an india-rubber ball. "What
more do you want?" he shouted out suddenly, in a ringing voice.
"Half of Russia is dying of hunger! The Moscow News is triumphant!
They want to introduce classicism, the students' benefit clubs
have been closed, spies everywhere, oppression, lies, betrayals,
deceit! And it is not enough for him! He wants some new
unpleasantness! He thinks that I am joking. . . . Basanov has
been arrested," he added, lowering his voice. "I heard it at the
library."

"My dear Alexai Dmitritch," Paklin began, "you are upset, and for
a very good reason. But have you forgotten in what times and in
what country we are living? Amongst us a drowning man must
himself create the straw to clutch at. Why be sentimental over
it? One must look the devil straight in the face and not get
excited like children--"

"Oh, don't, please!" Nejdanov interrupted him desperately,
frowning as if in pain. "We know you are energetic and not afraid
of anything--"

"A friend no doubt. Friends are great at that. One must look
alive! I once had a friend, who seemed a good fellow; he was
always concerned about me and my reputation. 'I say, what
dreadful stories are being circulated about you!' he would greet
me one day. 'They say that you poisoned your uncle and that on
one occasion, when you were introduced into a certain house, you
sat the whole evening with your back to the hostess and that she
was so upset that she cried at the insult! What awful nonsense!
What fools could possibly believe such things!' Well, and what do
you think? A year after I quarrelled with this same friend, and
in his farewell letter to me he wrote, 'You who killed your own
uncle! You who were not ashamed to insult an honourable lady by
sitting with your back to her,' and so on and so on. Here are
friends for you!"

"Why are you always trying to keep things from me?" Paklin
exclaimed. "Have I not deserved your confidence? Even if I were
not fully in sympathy with what you are undertaking, do you think
for a moment that I am in a position to turn around or gossip?"

"No, no. It is not necessary. I can get the money. I will draw
some of my allowance in advance. Now I recollect, they owe me
something. Let us look at the letter, Ostrodumov."

Ostrodumov remained motionless for a time, then he looked around,
stood up, bent down, turned up one of the legs of his trousers,
and carefully pulled a piece of blue paper out of his high boot,
blew at it for some reason or another, and handed it to Nejdanov.
The latter took the piece of paper, unfolded it, read it
carefully, and passed it on to Mashurina. She stood up, also read
it, and handed it back to Nejdanov, although Paklin had extended
his hand for it. Nejdanov shrugged his shoulders and gave the
secret letter to Paklin. The latter scanned the paper in his
turn, pressed his lips together significantly, and laid it
solemnly on the table. Ostrodumov took it, lit a large match,
which exhaled a strong odour of sulphur, lifted the paper high
above his head, as if showing it to all present, set fire to it,
and, regardless of his fingers, put the ashes into the stove. No
one moved or pronounced a word during this proceeding; all had
their eyes fixed on the floor. Ostrodumov looked concentrated and
business-like, Nejdanov furious, Paklin intense, and Mashurina as
if she were present at holy mass.

About two minutes went by in this way, everyone feeling
uncomfortable. Paklin was the first to break the silence.

"Well?" he began. "Is my sacrifice to be received on the altar of
the fatherland? Am I permitted to bring, if not the whole at any
rate, twenty-five or thirty roubles for the common cause?"

Nejdanov flared up. He seemed to be boiling over with annoyance,
which was not lessened by the solemn burning of the letter--he
was only waiting for an opportunity to burst out.

"I tell you that I don't want it, don't want, don't want it! I'll
not allow it and I'll not take it! I can get the money. I can get
it at once. I am not in need of anyone's help!

"My dear Alexai," Paklin remarked, "I see that you are not a
democrat in spite of your being a revolutionist!"

"I ran across Skoropikin today," Paklin was the first to begin.
"Our great national critic, aesthetic, and enthusiast! What an
insufferable creature! He is forever boiling and frothing over
like a bottle of sour kvas. A waiter runs with it, his finger
stuck in the bottle instead of a cork, a fat raisin in the neck,
and when it has done frothing and foaming there is nothing left
at the bottom but a few drops of some nasty stuff, which far from
quenching any one's thirst is enough to make one ill. He's a most
dangerous person for young people to come in contact with."

Paklin's true and rather apt comparison raised no smile on his
listeners' faces, only Nejdanov remarked that if young people
were fools enough to interest themselves in aesthetics, they
deserved no pity whatever, even if Skoropikin did lead them
astray.

"Of course," Paklin exclaimed with some warmth--the less sympathy
he met with, the more heated he became--" I admit that the
question is not a political one, but an important one,
nevertheless. According to Skoropikin, every ancient work of art
is valueless because it is old. If that were true, then art would
be reduced to nothing more or less than mere fashion. A
preposterous idea, not worth entertaining. If art has no firmer
foundation than that, if it is not eternal, then it is utterly
useless. Take science, for instance. In mathematics do you look
upon Euler, Laplace, or Gauss as fools? Of course not. You accept
their authority. Then why question the authority of Raphael and
Mozart? I must admit, however, that the laws of art are far more
difficult to define than the laws of nature, but they exist just
the same, and he who fails to see them is blind, whether he shuts
his eyes to them purposely or not."

Paklin ceased, but no one uttered a word. They all sat with
tightly closed mouths as if feeling unutterably sorry for him.

"All the same," Ostrodumov remarked, " I am not in the least
sorry for the young people who run after Skoropikin."

He went up to Nejdanov, intending to ask his opinion about
smuggling in the magazine, the "Polar Star", from abroad (the "Bell"
had already ceased to exist), but the conversation took such a
turn that it was impossible to raise the question. Paklin had
already taken up his hat, when suddenly, without the slightest
warning, a wonderfully pleasant, manly baritone was heard from
the passage. The very sound of this voice suggested something
gentle, fresh, and well-bred.

The door opened gently and a man of about forty entered the room
and slowly removed his glossy hat from his handsome, closely
cropped head. He was tall and well-made, and dressed in a
beautiful cloth coat with a gorgeous beaver collar, although it
was already the end of April. He impressed Nejdanov and Paklin,
and even Mashurina and Ostrodumov, with his elegant, easy
carriage and courteous manner. They all rose instinctively on his
entrance.